The ol blog stream

Blogstream Reunited

2011-11-24T07:38:00.000-06:00

Just way too many ex-blogstreamers out here for me to keep up with. Be it known 'you don't need an invite to come over to Blogstream Reunited.'

All you need to do is give us your Facebook name and your old Blogstream name and you will be added to the group.

Just leave a comment here and we'll follow up.

Who we R from Facebook (Blogstream Reunited)

2011-11-22T21:41:00.001-06:00

The First Moment

2011-11-15T10:30:00.002-06:00

The First Moment; The Preamble to the Preamble

I’ve been mulling it over for a long time; probably for at least a year, maybe longer. An auto-biography about my life. The big problem I keep running into is that I want it to be a ‘tell-all,’ for - why tell an incomplete story?

The way to get around this problem has slowly turned obvious to me; I will simply hide the tree in the forest - using fiction. By writing a fictional account I will be able to hide behind the word (fiction), and with a light dusting of poetic license, I can tell my story while plausibly denying that which exceeds any of my perceived/expected personal boundaries.

The first technical hurdle is - Writing. One word. Not a big word at all - but the reason for much frustration, i.e. writer’s block. Why is (writing) so difficult? First of all a writer wants to be sure that his/her words are exactly right; none left out, but not too many either. Secondly is the desire to use the English language correctly. Obviously, since I’m writing basically for myself, not for publication, this is of little importance. However, I do want it to be as easy to read/comprehend - as possible - while at the same time, easy (for me) to formulate and lay out. To that end I’ve decided that this story will not be written from the beginning, but instead will be shotgunned from my brain, literally, and it will be left up to the reader to put in any kind of precise order, if so desired.

So, my story begins at the moment, which makes sense because that is all we have - just the moment. It will be the various/complex ‘moments’ in my life - as seen from the perspective of present day. And, remember, all of these true facts will be intertwined with fictitious characters, full of innuendoes, and outright lies.

Some will say that the thoughts of a 63 year old man - about that same man at 20, 30 or whatever age, will be without a doubt - distorted. Distorted by the passage of time and the desire to paint the picture in its best light. While I cannot disagree with this assessment, I do not see it’s importance; after all - this is a fictional story, and it is meant to be distorted in order to protect the innocent, and hide the guilty.

At the this moment I am dealing with the possibility that I will have to put myself on anti-depressants. Clinical and heavy-duty depression is easy to diagnose, however, mild depression, which I believe I probably have - is much harder to determine. Like many, I am opposed to taking some drugs. That is an interesting statement, for it clearly tells you that I will take drugs if I want to - and will also refuse if I so decide. But, is that not my right to do? Of course it is - and we all exercise this right (to varying degrees), some more than others. Some - will obediently follow the direction of their doctor and take only whatever drugs he/she prescribes, while others will make the decision themselves, even to the point of prescribing their own drug, be it legal or illegal. Obviously, I fall into the latter category.

Anti-depressants are mood altering drugs, not unlike marijuana, a drug I have no problem taking - yet - I pause on the threshold of taking an anti-depressant.

Why?

Apparently I have no problem altering my mood with a drug, so why the hesitation? This is an easy question to answer; the main difference between marijuana and an anti-depressant is duration. They both (will) change my mood - but one will do it temporarily, while the other will do it forever. It’s that ‘forever’ thing that gets me, for I happen to believe that moderate depression is a natural progression in the cycle of life.

Actually, moderate depression is no more than melancholy, and that, in and of itself, is not necessarily bad. To examine one’s life, primarily with a backward glance, and from an inner perspective - is probably one of the most natural things to do, and a option that I am not inclined to give up, at least not without thinking it through.

Therefore, it will an issue that I will decide at a later date(stay tuned).

Rooting for St. Louis to win the World Series

2011-10-28T05:47:00.000-05:00

I’ve passed this world by (no Virginia ‘it’ didn’t pass me by) - it no longer means anything to me - other than it’s all I have, and I’m forced to deal with it. I do my best to (not deal with it) but it’s no use; if you’re alive you have to deal with it. Living in the U.S.A. I have to believe that I’m in one of the top 5 places to live, on this speck of dirt we call earth - but that’s little consolation when having to put up with the shit.

I also believe that my condition is caused primarily by age; my years on the planet has disillusioned me, and I no longer have the ‘wonder’ of youth to buoy me in the choppy and mostly - murky waters of life. So, a sub-moral to my story - ‘since there’s no apparent relief in sight - just deal with it.’

To that end I’ve been working on a time-particle machine that when perfected will transport me back in time to wherever I want to go. For the time being I’m torn between 1955 and1920 but am leaning toward the double nickel one.

Ah, but if it was only that easy; to invent a time machine to whisk you away from the madness - back to a time where things moved slow, and one had the time to breathe, to relax, to - live.

This world could not hold the interest of my great-grandfather, my grandfather, or even my father, and if they were so cursed to be brought back somehow, from wherever it is they now are. They would be so unimpressed - that I think they might just (all three) sit outside, and dry up; to be blown away - along with the dust - by the wind. A fact that instills in me no fear whatsoever of death.

Ah man - you’re in depression and don’t know it (you tell me)! “Yeah man” - I tell you (right back) “and you are in denial if you think your man made clinical analysis will get me to downing a little cube (of chemical) every morning like a good little earthling (ha-ha).”

A good friend once told me - ‘to get it with it man, and quit living in the past and live in the present - for these are good times and good things are happening.” I’ll just leave his statement here by itself - so it can only stink up this paragraph instead of my whole story.

The idea that to yearn for the past ‘is to not be able to live in the present’ is flawed from the beginning. Why would you yearn for the past if not disillusioned with the present - and how could you be disillusioned with the present if it was ‘worth a fuck (as George Carlin would ask us)?’

However, the above paragraph does ‘beg the question’ that ‘maybe everything is screwed and we just don’t know it.’ That this could be the simplistic answer to the riddle of life - stands alone as a possibility to frighten the masses. Thankfully, though, the masses do not delve into questions like I’ve brought forward in this story. For the most part they (the masses) trudge from home to work and back everyday in a mental fog that comforts them through the long dark nights.

For now, I will step back on the interstate of life - and continue to roll into oblivion, while rooting for the Cardinals to win the World Series.

idel times

2011-09-03T13:17:00.004-05:00

It’s a strange decade; the seventh of your life. You’ve already come to grip with your own mortality by now, or at least you should of. If you haven’t - you’re so far behind the curve it won’t do any good for me to try and explain it to you. And, you’re so far into denial - that nobody can help.

In any event - this discourse is not for you - so you can go putter in the garden, or perhaps, mow the lawn, or watch a movie... it doesn’t really matter.

But, for the rest (of you) - relax - it’s not going to hurt, and I guarantee it’ll be enlightening.

From the beginning you’ve suspected more than what you’ve known; more than you could know - and - suggestively, you’ve suspected the real truth but have been afraid to mention it - aloud anyway. In the dark - while sliding off to sleep, a.k.a. death’s preamble (especially at this age), your last conscious thoughts have more often than not - hinged on the possibility that your anticipated sleep, might, indeed, be more than just a preamble.

In which case you realize not without anticipation that the answer(s) to the greatest mystery is just beyond the curtain falling. Which makes your dreams - now unimportant and not amusing - but, instead, a long awaited prelude, to either a dawning of realization - or - nothing-less.

It is this nothing-less that at once scares you the most, but, because it’s an an ethereal truth - it reassures you too. Reassures you because as the not so funny joke goes, you realize that you were harmlessly dead for eons before being born - and what’s to keep you from being ‘born again‘ - some day - eons into the future, or maybe not. And if ‘not,’ then what’s the harm?

The very smart of this world, both dead and alive - seem to think there is not an after-life - which is where we would expect those ‘smart people’ to default to - since most of them are admitted atheists, and without a religious faith to lean on, the after-life seems almost an after-thought, in the grand design we call life.

But, I happen to believe that they (the very smart people) are just trying to be ‘smart,’ or should I say possessed with a higher ‘cerebral’ intelligence than the rest of us; perhaps magnified to nth degree, for all the good it does them.

The fact that nobody knows is not lost on anyone - only forgotten at times when being lectured to by someone supposedly in the know. Reality of course tells us that nothing matters anyway - for like all humans who attempt to define or explain this life, nobody alive is privy to the answer(s).

But, could ‘reality’ be lying to us?

Have you ever doubted reality?

I never did.

That is until about 3 years ago when my dreams began to change.

Everyone dreams - but does anyone dream as I do?

Do you?

Until they (my dreams) started their gradual, but definitive metamorphosis, I’d never paid a whole lot of attention to them. Granted - I wondered (sometimes) if they were predictive of the future, especially when they concerned accidents to loved ones (or myself) - but for the most part - I considered them to be just interesting little side-bars to the main event, which of course was/is my life.

But, in the last three years (roughly speaking) I’ve been having dreams that seem to be (by themselves) harmless as always - but - when pieced together in a certain way, take on a meaning that while not clear, is certainly leading to one. For a long time I’ve unsuccessfully tried to make complete sense of what is going on in my head (when I dream) - only to (as I said above) - fail.

But, as if seeing a puzzle within a puzzle - I’ve slowly came to the realization that although I can’t solve it myself, - we can.

Dream-Purification is what I call it - and to that end I’m asking for your help.

If Blogger.Com was a Movie Theater Auditorium

2011-08-23T07:54:00.000-05:00

Imagine that 'all of Blogger.com' is enclosed within the confines of a movie theater auditorium.

Someone yells FIRE! FIRE!FIRE!

So all the bloggers run for the EXIT DOORS.

And, as we can see from our vantage point (outside the auditorium) - there are INDEED! bloggers running from the auditorium.

There they are.

Whit

and

Sarge

and

Ice

and

Sherry

and

Yellow Fringe

and

Scratch

and

uh, duh, there doesn't seem to be anyone else.

Been Away for over a month now.

2011-08-21T14:13:00.000-05:00

Came back to see Whit 'disgusted' with Blogger and Sherry (Raindrops) going away for awhile to read books.

It's plain to see that "Blogger" is NOTHING like Blogstream was - and in my opinion there is nothing on the horizon to compare to what we had on the old stream.

What's odd to me is the 'lack of any input' (seemingly) from any bloggers other than ex-blogstreamers.

It's almost as if we (think ships/boats) have been banished to a great ocean - without any other ships on it - except for us.

Really strange.

I will check back once in awhile - but for the time being I'm searching for another Blogstream.

Note: Speaking of Blogstream - can anyone tell me why it (Blogstream) is (as of 10 minutes ago) STILL UP AND RUNNING ?

Mysteries abound on this beautiful day in August - yes?

ice

Conversation between Romantic Ice and Logical Ice

2011-07-06T22:35:00.002-05:00

ROM-ICE = Romantic Ice LOG-ICE = Logical Ice

Rom-ice - whiskey tastes good.

Log-ice - so does the cigar.

Rom-ice - don’t miss the cigs at all.

Log-ice - I’d never believe it - if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes.

Rom-ice - you’re not - you’re using ice’s.

Log-ice - you know what I mean.

Rom-ice - yeah - perhaps better than anyone.

Log-ice - lots to do between now and Sunday.

Rom-ice - not everything has to be done before Sunday or even S.D.

Log-ice - yeah - but there’s still much to do.

Rom-ice - tires are the most pressing - the rest can wait till DeKalb and McAlister.

Log-ice - yeah - but I want to run the Hot water through before we go - and make sure the stove/oven is working. The heater can wait and I already know the refrigerator works.

Rom-ice - not going to have to pay lawyer - that’s good.

Log-ice - yeah - but I’m still going to squeeze a few more answers from him.

Rom-ice - we’re going to need to change the appointment from the 13th to the 14th - right?

Log-ice - yeah

Rom-ice - ought to be an easier way to keep up with all the bullshit.

Log-ice - nothing less than a personal secretary could help me.

Rom-ice - tag for rv should be here by Sunday - right?

Log-ice - I’m hoping.

Rom-ice - looking fwd to 6 months in South Texas where it doesn’t get real hot or cold.

Log-ice - sick of the hot/cold shit.

Rom-ice - know what you mean.

Log-ice - just want to kick back - and play golf - and go to pot-luck suppers - fuck the t.v., talking heads and nightly news - screw the economy, the election and all the bullshit going on. Just want to ‘drop out for the winter; spend a lot of days at the beach doing nothing.

Rom-ice - sounds like we might of found the perfect place.

Log-ice - let’s hope so.

Rom-ice - so - tires for the RV - and a good wash-job?

Log-ice - that’s about it.

Rom-ice - Get the Open Road up and FOR SALE by mid-August?

Log-ice - yeah - although letting a dealership sell it (consignment) is the easy way for that shit.

Rom-ice - how much do you think we’ll need to spend to get it ready?

Log-ice - less than $500 I hope and the consignment will save us $100 a month for lot rent.

Rom-ice - and if we haven’t sold it back the end of next spring - just ‘dump’ it on a dealer?

Log-ice - yeah - we can wholesale it for what we have in it - we bought it right.

Rom-ice - going to have to activate Direct TV?

Log-ice - yeah

Rom-ice - good - I’ve been missing the THIN MAN movies, yes?

Log-ice - sure.

Rom-ice - not going to do anything to Open Road till we get back from S.D.?

Log-ice - right.

Rom-ice - Need to check on putting Cox cable in hibernation from Oct to April.

Log-ice - and cancel Verizon once and for all.

Rom-ice - I’ll be glad to see it go.

Log-ice - me too.

Rom-ice - Set up Stonebridge and Union Bankers when we return from S.D.?

Log-ice - yeah.

Rom-ice - this age, our age, the 60’s - Man! - reminds me of the 1960’s - you know - wild and wooly.

Log-ice - yeah we’re dead in the middle of some shit aren’t we?

Rom-ice - you can say that again - what with facing our own mortality, our parents getting old(er), passing; uncles and aunts (and other relatives/friends) falling like civil war soldiers at Gettysburg.

Log-ice - like shooting ducks in a pond.

Rom-ice - excepting we’re the ducks.

Log-ice - you could of went all day without saying that.

Rom-ice- “all day” reminds me of “Sugar Daddy and Black Cow suckers.”

Log-ice - stick to the subject.

Rom-ice - are we going to make Lawton and the German Store?

Log-ice - doubtful - but maybe.

Rom-ice - I’d like to.

Log-ice - we’ll try to work it in - maybe tomorrow or Thursday.

Rom-ice - Tires tomorrow?

Log-ice - got to get on the tires - in case they have to order them.

Rom-ice - will we go to Texas without new tires?

Log-ice - probably - but I don’t see it happening.

Rom-ice - ‘happening?’

Log-ice - carry over from the 1960’s.

Rom-ice -for a 60 something guy, yes?

Log-ice - roll on man.

Rom-ice - yeah - right.

Hitchitch

2011-06-18T22:14:00.000-05:00

Sitting around listening to music from the past, smoking dope and drinking Crown, all the while trying to figure out where I’ve been and has it been worth it. The highway I’ve been on hasn’t always been smooth, although long stretches of it I never felt - while the few bumps I did encounter - never really slowed me down.

Hard to believe it’s 2011 - I can remember 1961 and everyone having fun with the fact that if you flipped it upside down it was still 1961. I heard (back then) when that would happen again - but I’ve forgotten it; I guess you could do a ‘search’ on the web and find out if you really wanted to know. I don’t.

Friday night and I’m at the house - hell - what would it feel like to be running the streets at my age - hard to imagine - but damn glad I don’t have that need.

But, ah, when I did (have the need) and was (running the streets) - man, it was - what? Spot on? RIght on? - nah ... none of that - it was just - live (heavy on the i). You might add ing and call it living (easy on the i) but in any case it was my life and I played it out; what choice did I have anyway? I was going to do what I was going to do, just like anyone would; just like you I would imagine - yes? And - it still goes on for us - doesn’t it?

Sometimes it amazes me that seemingly 99% of the world pays no attention to the fact that 100% of the world has no clue as to what is going on. Man it’s hell being in that 1% some of the time; to dwell on the fact we’re all flying blind through this thing we call life - just blows my fucking mind, it just does. The only good thing I can come up with when dealing with death - is it’s the only thing offering to enlighten us. Shit! Is that why folks do the suicide thing? Do you think? Nah, it’s interesting (what’s on the other side) but i can wait till the appointed time; still - it is something positive about a very negative thing. Or is it?

Looks like we’re headed for South Dakota around the 15th of next month. Going out to see some friends (and party down) and get our ‘South Dakota’ drivers license so that we will match up with our South Dakota license plates on our vehicles. Next step will be to change over to South Dakota Auto Insurance, and then (by god!) we’ll be complete with a S.D. address, auto tags, DL’s and Auto Insurance - which will mark the first time since 2009 we’ve been on the same spot with everything.

From there I’m wanting to go to Seattle and spend a few weeks in the trees and get some ‘culture’ in the city of culture. Don’t know if that’ll happen though - it depends on how well Mom does; we may have to come on back after S.D. - if she’s not handling the ‘living on her own thing.’ Doesn’t matter how much you want something - you’ve got to be able to handle it, and whether or not she can - is a question without an answer.

Doesn’t matter all that much - for we’ve managed to get a ‘work-camper spot’ at a Snowbird Ranch way down south (way down) Texas way and are looking forward to spending 6 months in a Senior Citizen Resort. Gee, I wonder if we’re going to party till the cows come home - or are they already home?

Wonder if we’re run into like minded people (as us) down there? One can always hope, can’t he/she?

We worked on the RV today - getting ready for the S.D. voyage coming up in a few weeks. Loaded up a bunch of shit in the truck and brought it back to Mom’s; I’m not carrying ‘junk’ around this time - we’re are reducing our load my friend, reducing it quite a bit.

Serial

2011-06-04T09:18:00.000-05:00

It comes on regular as clockwork; so damn regular I feel as if it might be controlled by some weird ebb that’s intrinsically connected to the oceans, or the moon, or both. I see it as a fall, because that’s what it feels like; as if suddenly there’s no ground beneath my feet, and I’m falling. It’s like a strange immensity of some sort has taken over my body, pulling, tugging me, and it’s strong, so strong I know it would be fruitless to resist. And, yes, I know, it’ll always be back, for I’ve witnessed its return, time and time again.

Every 48-96 hours it slams back into me; emitting small-like early tremors to herald its return - just before a frightening whiplash of pure power grabs me and I’m jerked into an exhilarating, and sickening, vortex from hell. And, it’s a headlong dive; a dive into a place filled with unexplainably, unseen fiery flames, encased in total, absolute darkness. And, the nightmare cloaked within the nightmare, is the haunting question I always ask myself; is it coming back to me or am I going back to it.

The answer I seek, is lost in my past, for although I cannot deny my fear, I also cannot deny the eager anticipation that stirs within my loins at the dawn of the next morning. And, I know - it’s this anticipation that helps to feed the monster within; the monster that I know will never completely leave. So it is, to be me and to know I will experience that sickening drop over and over again - into darkness so dark that I’m always convinced that there will never again be light. It is during these insane moments when I’m lost in its hellish darkness - that I wish for the light to never return, and even though I would not easily give it up - to be rid of the fall - I would let it go, this I know. But, lest I forget - I’m always reminded that - for there to be good, there must be bad, and to have the light I must have the fall.

There was a time, back in nam, when I thought I could fight it off, but I never could, and in fact, nam was the last time I even tried. But it didn’t start there, it actually started when I was a kid in elementary school, that’s when I first noticed it - and even though I was too young to realize what was happening - way back in the depths of my mind a little voice was telling me that I was fucked up.

I remember the first time it really grabbed me hard. I was following Nancy out of class; Intro Philosophy, an evening class, which all of mine were since I worked during the day at Sam’s Donuts (pushing the little round doughy things). I was a Freshman, commonly referred to as ‘newbie,’ or in my case - ‘night newbie.‘ since I was one of those who worked during the day, attended night classes 4 days a week, all while living with the folks.

It was a different story for her though; she was in the 3rd year of a ‘free ride’ provided to her by her globe-trotting parents who lived in California. An arrangement that remained tolerable for everyone concerned as long as she didn’t fly home too often. At least that’s what Susie Gilliam, a friend of mine told me; she had heard some of the girls talking.

What exactly Nancy was doing in an - Intro - class, especially an evening one, was never explained to me at the time, but I cared little for the ‘why’ back then; besides she was easy to look at, and I had declared her ‘mine.’ It was the only class for both of us, on this particular Tuesday night, and like always, I was following her back to the dorm, which, although a little out of my way - was the route I took to the parking lot where my car was. I didn’t mind.

I’d lit a joint, the sweet smell, enclosed in a puff of smoke - was already floating out in front of me, slipping up on her from behind. I’d done this before, always hoping to entice her to want to talk to me, maybe get high with me. It’d never worked, she always walked straight to the dorm, and if she smelled the marijuana - I never knew. In all the times we were in class together, sitting next to each other, there had never been anything more than a tentative ‘hi,’ from me or an occasional - ‘have a good night,’ from her. That night had unrolled the same as always, and there was no reason for me to think that it was going to end any differently than the others, except for one thing. The moon. It was so white it looked abnormal; almost like a dead sun. I couldn’t believe it at first; I track ‘full moons, I know when they’re coming. I’ve fucking waited on them! But, this one had come up on it’s own, literally rising up - full and big in front of us, casting it’s shine all about, like righteous rays from god himself - right in front of my mother-fucking eyes; I swear the sky didn’t look big enough to contain it.

The Cherry Tree that wasn't chopped down.

2011-05-15T08:46:00.004-05:00

The old man, who hadn’t said a word since I’d brought him into my office - leaned back expansively, and while wiping his chin, began to talk.

‘This is what we know - All nature is rhythmical.’

My hands freeze just above the keys of the typewriter at the sound of his voice; my eyes have already ‘involuntarily,’ jerked up to stare at him; all this in reaction to his voice. It is so distinct, and unexpectedly rich and full - that I can’t believe it’s him talking, and as I watch in astonishment - he continues - ‘From the beat of our hearts, to the tides of the sea, and to the succession of the seasons, all nature is rhythmical; this you can count on.’

Coming to an abrupt stop, he calmly looks out the window as if expecting something or someone. We are at the 67th Precinct; the window in question is the sole window in my tiny office which showcases a scenic view of whats left of Neff’s Paper Mill, some five stories below. The window is permanently sealed in a vain attempt to thwart the smell that has lingered, even though the mill has been closed for over 10 years.

As he’s taking in the scene - I’m unabashedly re-examining him - he appears to be the same strange little man I led in here less than ten minutes ago, but I cannot help but to appraise him again. Maybe a half foot over five, a sopping wet weight of 120 - max - with unremarkable wispy gray hair, which looks super-glued to his scalp, and possessing a distinct odor that I’ll leave to your imagination.

All in all he is a ‘nothing’ by way of physical appearance, and up until this moment - has been just an unexpected delay at the end of my shift.

Lt. Jameson, my boss, shoved him off on me a few minutes ago telling me that O’Neiely - the arresting officer - (as they say on television) - had suddenly developed some kind of an emergency.

But now, as I peer closer at him, like he is some unknown specimen under glass, I’m waiting for him to speak again, and wondering if I really heard what I just heard.

I wasn’t in ‘wonderland’ long though - as once again I hear the same voice - coming from the little man.

‘The planet greets our sun every morning, and the moon and stars follow with the night; this alteration of night and day brings on the succession of the seasons.’

As I’m thinking - ‘what kind of gibberish is this’ - the door to my office opens and Lt. Jamesons head peers from around the door, his entire body except for his ‘super-sized’ head, is hidden from my view - and for an quick instant - I speculate to myself whether there’s actually a body attached to this weird, elongated looking noggin.

But my ruminations are interrupted as the full lips on the head begin to move - and I hear - ‘Gantry, Gantry.’

‘Right here Lt.,’ I say, my eyes now locked in on the comical talking head.

‘I don’t know what your problem is’ - the head says - ‘but get his information, book him, and lock him down; I need you in my office in ten.’

Even as he slams the door I’m thinking – why would I pay any attention to him for? And, as my gaze which was temporarily stolen, returns to the little man - I merely say ‘fuck you L- T,’ with a laugh.

And to the little man I direct a question - ‘You do realize you broke the law?’

My question causes him to look at me, he’s been staring out the window again, and as he does, I get a odd sensation - as if he’s a step ‘above me’ instead of below.

‘Screw the law,’ he says - while yawning loudly, with hands in the air. Then, as I watch in growing fascination, a grimy hand is retracted by an equally grimy arm and after being directed to a red spot on his forehead - it begins to scratch feverishly.

‘You want to know the only law that counts?‘ He asks me as the hand continues to claw at the spot. ‘Try the law of the knowable, as in how the climate changes while stars are being born, and then changes back as they are dying.’

‘After all,’ he continues, ‘what is real and what isn’t - foretells the simple law of the unknown.’

I stare at him, dumbfounded, although that is an understatement at this point.

‘Now, young fella’ - he continues - ‘I want you to get up, and escort me out of this building.’

As we come to the side door which opens into the alley, he turns and holds out his hand, while saying, ‘could you spare a twenty or so?’

I look into my wallet and see three twenties, and a ten; giving him all of it, I pat him on the back, and open the door.

Stepping out - and back into his world - he turns and smiles.

I start to ask him a question.

‘Will the cycle begin again?’ - He says with a raised eyebrow, as I try to say - without success - those exact words.

‘For sure,’ he says, answering his own question, easily, as if he knew for certain; ‘the cycle will begin again, and endless times over, - because from the unknown we appear, and to the unknown we disappear.’

And then - he was gone.

Shades of Donald Rumsfield.

The Picture

2011-05-08T22:47:00.007-05:00

I’m staring at the picture; the one on this blog, and although I’ve looked at it many times - there is a feeling within me - that says that I’ve never really looked at it. That same feeling also tells me I might be staring into an abyss of sorts, and in a weird way - it occurs to me that the abyss might be staring back.

Something shifts within my mind, a small groundswell, which takes me away from the picture; on my desk, the stereo begins playing an unfamiliar song, a guitar can be heard; it’s being lightly strummed, and then - as on an invisible cue, the tempo begins to pick up, more instruments come from seemingly right around the corner, and now I can hear singing.

Back to the picture, actually a few seconds ahead of it; or does it happen with you? With me - when I go to my blog page and open it up, an odd thing happens; for just a micro-second before the page opens, I see a flash; it's a picture of a phone, it's an old fashioned style phone,1930s era. It's the same phone we see right now, just below these words. If this happens to you too, (and it won't happen to everyone) you might figure I've incorporated it into the mix of this blog, kind of like when the movie mongrels used to flash a box of hot, buttery popcorn on the theater screen, just before the main feature started to play.

But you'd be wrong. I've nothing to do with it, don’t know how it got there, and really prefer to live in ignorance about it.

‘Live in Ignorance’ - They say that what you don’t know won’t bother you, or is that hurt?

No matter.

Again, back to the picture, the phone on the wall has already appeared and disappeared, not unlike the sun that circles this planet, or does it?

I’m looking at the picture, but, where are you? Still up on top working out whether or not the earth circles the sun, or the sun circles the earth? Yeah, I thought about what I said right after I said it; you know what I mean? I was wondering if I’d said it right or not, when suddenly I realized that it didn’t matter - for I could just throw it back to the reader; so there you are, now you can tell me what it is, yes?

Once again, back to the picture, we must go, for it’s rushing straight at me, and while my instinct is to run away, there is a part of me that holds back, allowing the picture to slowly envelope me, easing me into the scene. I can’t help but marvel at how easy it is to give oneself up to something that feels so right. It's like being in love; you know without a doubt that the one you love is exactly what you need, what you want, what you must have.

So it is with me and this picture, and as it slides at me, and comes all around me, I can feel it absorbing me within the confines of the picture itself, and then I’m there. I’m on the street, it’s still damp from the rain of a few minutes ago; the cars have their headlights on even though the sun is peeking back out. The smell of rain lingers like someone getting ready to leave, and you wish you could hold it close to you for just a few more seconds, but you know you can’t.

You see Terry on his bike; he’s throwing his papers, and you notice the saddlebags on his bike and remember the day he bought them. You were both at ‘Western Auto,’ it was the first day of summer vacation last year and you had to loan him a quarter. You remember how hard it’s been every time you’ve heard the name Terry; you always think of him.

It’s the fall of the year, a preemptive chill is moving through the picture, back to front; evidence the smoking chimneys, and sweet smell of burning wood. Surely, there’s a football game tonight I think to myself, while immediately remembering that it’s Homecoming!

I see the wine-red 37 Chevy sedan to my left, and remember the smell of my grandpa's old car, while knowing that this is a 1937 model because I saw it 'brand new' just last week, at Johnson’s Chevrolet on Main Street; it’s this year’s model - 1937.

Lights are on in the houses, the rainstorm has passed and although the sun is back - it won’t be long before it’s gone too - and the night will rule.

Not to worry - I’ll be back before the sun checks out.

pages torn from my diary

2011-05-07T12:53:00.001-05:00

February the 25th and -The Hit

Growing up in my little hometown - I always had a deep seated yearning to roam, a gypsy way of living seemed the way for me. A not so unusual trait of youth I suppose, although I now know - that for most, it is one that disappears with age, not unlike teenage acne.

For me, however, it has never dissipated, and in fact, has grown stronger with each passing year. I’ve always thought that I acquired this yearning from my father - who himself, dreamed of an idyllic lifestyle, (living in an RV 24-7 was one of his life-long dreams) although because of Mom, (she was, and is - quite content to stay in one place) his dreams always remained dreams.

Irregardless of how I acquired it, or why, it has always been with me; an urge to be free, to roam wherever, and whenever. And coupled with this desire for a gypsy way of life, is a feeling that naturally fits in the same box; which is - that time is of the essence, and that I must be moving on, as if by constantly being on the move - I might stop time itself.

On June 1st of last year I finally retired from the Army Reserves and with the love of my life beside me - set out to begin traveling and living in a RV 24-7, the same dream my father had but never fulfilled.

Doing a little self-analyzing I’ve already examined the possibility that I might be living this lifestyle as a way to do something Dad wanted to do, but never did. Sort of like when George W. Bush Jr., after toppling the brutal reign of Saddam in Iraq - was accused of finishing the job his father didn’t.

But, my self-analysis convinced me that while I was definitely influenced by my father, it would be folly to think I was living my current lifestyle based on his unfulfilled dreams. For, my entire life has been exactly the opposite of his; nowhere in our history can I - or anyone else, show similarities in any kind of a consistent pattern, that would suggest it.

In fact, with the exception of a faint physical resemblance to my father, (my brother always took after him, both in looks and demeanor), one would be hesitant to say we were related.

In any event, the die has already been cast, and as of February the 25th of this year, we’d been on the road for 9 months and were preparing to depart from McAlester Oklahoma, where we had chosen to spend the Thanksgiving and Christmas Holidays. The reason we were still there in February, (and not in Arizona as we’d originally planned) was because of family health concerns that thankfully - hadn’t materialized.

Since it was too late for Arizona, our new and revised destination was Georgia, where Joy’s sister and brother-n-law lived on a small acreage, complete with RV hookups, and just a few miles from the Atlantic Ocean.

It seemed the idea place to spend what was left of the winter, before making our way up the eastern seaboard to New York, and Niagara Falls, from which we would make a leisurely cross-country trek to Seattle. where we would stay until it was time to go to Arizona for the winter.

That was our plan, but as George Foreman says - ‘everybody has a plan until they get hit,’ and the hit we took, was my mother falling and breaking her hip on February the 25th.

Next: May 7th and - The Trap

On the bench

2011-05-06T00:24:00.000-05:00

If I could look into the future and spy the next twenty years, would I still want to live? What a truly fucked up question to ask - but - the answer if answerable, could undoubtedly be even more fucked than the question.

Yeah I know - why does my mind wander down these lonesome trails? Am I alone (out here) or just the only one admitting it? Another question - gee - I’ve got to quit writing in a series of questions. Gee? Hmm... is that Gee as in Gee Whiz or just a stand alone G - forget the double E?

Ruminating to myself on the Park Bench - in the Park of course - I did not know it when he sat on the other end of the bench.

So.... (he drew it out) - you’re back?

Looking to my left, in the direction of his voice, I was startled to see a man I hadn’t seen in 45 years. His name was Theo, and he was the first of two ‘Theo’s’ in my life, and by far - the most significant.

You know how they say ‘you haven’t aged a bit,’ and are generally lying through their teeth? Well, that’s one thing and the other thing is that Theo had not aged a bit since that wintery day in November of 1967, when I’d last seen him.

But I had.

I’d zoomed to 62 from 17 in flicker of a eyelash, just barely seeing myself as I hurtled through the hall of time.

Am I by myself?

Of course not - but hey! your misery does not necessarily make me feel any better.

‘you’re back?’

Hey, he said it again! I guess I’d better answer this time - at least that’s what I remember thinking at the time.

Tis me again - Theo man - but what do you mean with the ‘back’ stuff?

You’re were just here a second ago man - and now you’re back - already.

Is that Van Johnson and Donna Reed on that TV over there?

I was looking at the television setting between us - on the bench (won’t be long before kids won’t know what a television is).

WIthout glancing down - he said - sure is - but damn if I know the name of the movie, not that it matters.

Just then his previous comment finally caught up to me - the one where he said ‘I was back already.’

Where did I go Theo?

I don’t know where you went, or where you’ve been, but I do know you were just here.

‘That’s not a whole lot of help.’ - I said to him while noticing that the television set was not plugged in.

After a moment of reflection I realized that the only way the television could be working - would be - either (a) I’m fucking dreaming (b) somebody has a damn long extension cord, or (c) it’s a battery powered television.

So, he said - drawing it up a little short this time, Abrams is the name of the store?

And I’m - (I said) driving a 37 Chevy?

Yeah you are iceman - he said, - then added almost as an afterthought - you remember now - don’t you?

Backing my car out the garage while looking for the garage opener

2011-05-04T23:49:00.002-05:00

Backing the car out of the garage, my mind drifts out of my head, and within the old car smell, latching onto thoughts just lying around loose. You might think it a little odd, but I’m turning one of them ‘over and over’ in my head; thinking about you, as I whistle lightly - while turning in my seat, to see where I’m backing the old car.

You’re reading this because of events put into play by me a long, long time ago; trying to understand without an explanation has proved very agitating to you – hence – the reason you’ve resorted to joining this ‘blogging’ thing, after many half-hearted dalliances. You do not yet know till this instant, that it is me who is behind all this, but even as you process this startling fact you realize that there is nothing you can do to make yourself not keep reading.

Sitting back with a jerk I’m stunned to see these words appearing on the screen, even as my mind tries to sort out what I just read and of course, what I’m reading now. Without a pause, my own mind is galloping through this page - jumping over words short and long, as it tries to keep up with the brilliant creature from which this prose is coming.

And all this is going on in front of the rest of you; those who chose for some reason to read along with S and me, and are wondering what exactly is going on – on this blog.

Recognizing that you’ve recognized me on the blog - has not answered my own question - of who you are?

You are a reader of the blog, nothing more, nothing less, searching as we all search, for an insight to the road ahead. You can have any part you desire, his, hers, or mine, it is up to you to make the decision.

We await your command.

‘Jesus H. Christ’ I say as back into the street, without looking, and shift from reverse to low, causing the old car to move slowly down the street.

“What?”

Leo? Is that you?

“Yeah it’s me iceman; did you ever wonder what H stands for?”

You mean as in Jesus H. Christ?

“Yeah, and how come your comments are not enamored with the quotation marks?”

Decided to not fuck with it.

“That’s interesting.”

Anyway, it’s an easy way for the reader to know who’s talking, me or you.

“That probably should be ‘you or me,’ but what the hell.”

What do you think about this old car?

“Thirty-Seven Chevy; damn good ol car in its day.”

We’re headed down to the store to get some Halloween Candy.

“Oh you mean some ‘payoff candy’ don’t you?”

Yeah back in these days you had to actually bribe the little bastards to not soap your windows, or shred paper all over the yard, a frigging shakedown if I’ve ever seen one.

“Are you looking forward to the general store?”

Kinda.

“What’s its name?”

Abrams.

“Yeah that old building was built back in 02, it was a stable at first, then a farm supply house.”

You know she’s here with us.

“No shit – Why didn’t you tell me?”

Figured you knew already.

“Who else is here?”

A few other folks, mostly fellow wanderers like ice.

“Do they know?”

No, but she does.

“So… are we going to continue on like this – in front of all these other people?”

I don’t think they will mind.

“Well .. if it’s ok with you ….”

Anyhow, I’m sure they’re up for an adventure?

“I don’t know man; you know how ice can get?”

Too late now, there’s the store up ahead.

Good Morning to All and a Merry ....?

2011-04-27T07:37:00.000-05:00

A shot glass of Crown on his left, on the right, a burning joint, and drifting from right to left, across a craggy face with the bluest of eyes, sweet, mellow, marijuana smoke. One senses that the eyes have seen if not all, most all, and although the face shows little if any emotion, I still try to comprehend the question that this man, this oh so familiar man, has asked me.

Who am I?

That question rocks my world, waking all the great sheiks lying dormant at dream central, as commercials hawking cherry coke spill from the television on the dresser, and I wonder where I am.

If we only knew who we were and where we are - we might be able to figure out why.

But, then again, I doubt it - for as intelligent as we often think we are, our civilization is big on missing the elephant in the room.

And talk about an elephant in the room; 3 elephants in the same room? Who, what and why; The Three Stooges of Philosophy, and nobody’s paying attention.

I study the man more intently, for I know the dream is soon to end. Why does his questioning stare and repetitive, rhetorical question, cause me such agony while igniting other questions. Such as where have I seen him, why do I think I know him?

All these questions merge with a host of others, as I toss in my bed realizing with a sinking heart, that morning has arrived again, and I’m returning to the same place I left, while knowing no more than before.

Good Morning to All!

freaking freaks

2011-04-24T23:55:00.002-05:00

A full moon. It figures. Why else would I be on this road going nowhere round and round. Cause I’m a freak. One of the most important things when assessing oneself, is being honest. For if you can’t be honest with yourself - you sure won’t be honest with the next guy. So, admitting, finally, that I’m a freak comes as a surprise, even to myself.

Did you ever notice that while people like to write stories about monsters and devils - the real monsters and devils stay hidden behind a veil made of lies? Why? Because it’s so hard for most of us to admit that we are all freaks. Oh! you say - You’re not a freak!Oh, but you are - it’s just the degree/direction that differentiates you from the rest of us freaks.

They say we all have skeletons in our closets, and that my friend, is very true, even if you’re one of those who vehemently deny it. In fact, it’s people like you, who I suspect have some of the scariest skeletons hidden away in those closets.

So what is a freak?

A freak is someone who veers off the accepted path; a path designed, constructed and maintained by society, based on the consensus opinion (of society) of what is normal and what is not. Therefore if you are deemed (by society) as ‘not normal,’ then, by default you are declared a freak. Of course, as alluded to above, most (of us) do not admit that we are freaks - and thanks to closets and closed doors, we manage to keep our freakish ways out of the public eye. Which is the reason that society is freaky in it’s own-self; for it (society) appears to be made up of normal people all walking around acting normal, when the easily identifiable reality is - that everyone is a freak, but unfortunately not all freaks are easily spotted.

So, what we have determined to be true (although few will admit it) is that we are all freaks. Unfortunately, thanks to those lying to themselves and the rest of us, we have two different kinds of freaks. The first kind are those easily identifiable to be ‘not normal,’ and the second kind, which makes up the majority of us - are those freaks who will not admit it. Hi, how you doing?

All this begs the real question - who’s the bigger freak; the one who admits it or the one who hides it? And, of course there will (still) be those who deny it, and claim that they are normal and therefore not freakish. But by whose frigging standards? Sheettt!

Per My Instructions

2011-04-08T22:51:00.002-05:00

It was deliciously easy for someone with my money to fashion this little village in the mountains; staffed with everything I need. Along with my small family of relatives and friends, I’ve added everything from top-flight medical personnel to expert security experts, creating our little place away from it all.

Meeting all expectations and desires, without the ‘drag’ of modern civilization.

The phone rings.

It’s the ring of a real phone too; not the incessant pip-squeaking of a modern day cell phone. This ring is guttural and real.

My eyes follow my hand as it glides across my line of sight, stopping on an old fashioned phone sitting on a small table to my right; it’s standard issue black with a finger dialer - sans numbers or markings of any kind.

Hello I say, after picking it up, and in the seconds of silence before you answer I know it’s you.

Why did you have to go?

Why didn’t you come with us?

Both with a question but neither with an answer.

You tell me I’m cutting out - but it’s me that’s on the landline, and you who are floating aimlessly in cyberspace; connected to me in such a fragile manner I know I’m going to lose you - which I do.

This morning I awoke to the chill of an early hour, and after causing a fire in the fireplace next to my bed, I made my way down the stairs, through a long hallway and into the oversized kitchen.

After putting the coffee on, I lit a cigarette and smoked as I looked out the four squared window. Not looking for her, which is what she would expect me to do, but admiring the view; a narrow street with houses on both sides, fronted with sidewalks, of all things. The houses were vintage 1930-1940 style; kept up nice with neat yards, and freshly painted white picket fences.

Per my instructions.

I’d been trying to figure out what to do with my life when all of a sudden it came to me. Have you ever had one of those moments? A moment when something appears to your consciousness as if it’d been standing right next to you the whole time.

What came to me that Saturday morning just over a year ago, was devilishly simple; Jorge old boy - you have much more capital, than time left on this earth.

Now I know that many can make that same statement - but I must point out, that only a few of them can say - that they have not yet reached 30 years of age.

Which I can.

It doesn’t matter where I got my millions, you can pretend I was a professional athlete, a football player perhaps, one that got tired of answering the phone when it wasn’t ringing.

Like I said - it doesn’t matter.

Trapping back up the stairs, balancing a hot coffee cup in it’s saucer, I think of the morning to come. I’m meeting a couple of buddies at the Golf course at 9, we’ll play 18, and have drinks at the 19th.

No Instructions

2011-04-03T08:06:00.002-05:00

Welcome to the ol blog stream - a place winding itself through the haze of life with no excuses, only a few apologies, and even fewer explanations. I’m a heavy-hitter in every way of speaking; the small talk hardly interests me, less it delay my trip. The ol blog stream is more than just a catchy title, it’s more like a ‘Bump Sign’ on the highway - after the bump.

Why do I struggle with this writing thing, or bother myself with rhetorical questions? Why can’t I leave it lay - and quit worrying my already worried mind? Just can’t. I hear a song being sung, a verbalized verse, or read written words - and I feel the need to go somewhere I’ve never been - a place nobody can take me but me.

What am I looking for - and why do I want to find it? One of my many mystery questions; but one that mystifies me more, is why would one ever give up looking? Are you looking too, or, are you one of those who have already given up the search, and are merely content to ask - ‘have or has’ - which is it?

Questions like these do me no good; they lead me down paths without light, to dark places where paths end, leaving me alone with my obsessions.

I’ve wondered all my life, what life would of been like without obsessions. We all have them I guess, although I’ve known many a person who I seriously doubted had any at all.

Whiskey and Weed have been two of mine; more of the latter than the former, but both - essential ingredients in the mix. A mix I have to have, and one I can’t fathom missing from anyone’s conscious mind, but yet it is, missing, in so many - so many.

You should realize that it’s the mix I believe one must have, not necessarily my ingredients. You must choose your own poison so to speak. For me nothing is more natural than mixing the mix, getting stoned, and doing the stoned thing. Other ingredients in my personal mix are music, relaxation, sex, and anything else that rhymes with the rest - at a particular juncture of time.

If you’ve come here to read about current events, political, or whatever, you can X-out right now, because I’ve no use for what is going on in city, state, country, or world. As far as I’m concerned - the puny political movements, motives, or other various goings on, of people on this piece of dirt floating through space, are just cheap attempts to enhance their own personal wealth which in the end, does them no good. That statement begs the follow up question; what does?

Hey, that’s what I’m searching for and if you want a wayward journey then jump in the ol stream - and if you don’t - then keep watching all those talking heads on your boob tube. Be sure to listen ‘hard’ to what they’re telling you - for in those babbling words - spilling out of those blathering mouths - are instructions.

As for me; I’ve never been good at following instructions.

No instructions - construct as you please

2011-04-03T07:51:00.001-05:00

What am I looking for - and why do I want to find it? One of my many mystery questions; but one that mystifies me more, is why would one ever give up looking? Are you looking too, or, are you one of those who has already given up the search, and are merely content to ask - have or has - which is it?

Questions like these do me no good; they lead me down paths without light, to places without paths, leaving me alone with my obsessions.

I’ve wondered all my life, what life would of been like without obsessions. We all have them I guess, although I’ve known many a person who I seriously doubted had any at all.

Whiskey and Weed have been two of mine; more of the latter than the former, but both - essential ingredients in the mix. A mix I have to have, and one I can’t fathom missing from anyone’s conscious mind, but yet it is, missing, in so many - so many. You should realize that it’s the mix I believe one must have, not necessarily my ingredients. You must choose your own poison so to speak. For me nothing is more natural than mixing the mix, getting stoned, and doing the stoned thing. Other ingredients in my personal mix are music, relaxation, sex, and anything else that rhymes with the rest - at a particular juncture of time.

Hey, that’s what I’m searching for and if you want a wayward journey then jump in the ol stream - and if you don’t - then keep watching all those talking heads on your boob tube. Be sure to listen ‘hard’ to what they’re telling you - for in those babbling words - coming out of their blathering mouths - are instructions.

As for me; I’ve never been good at following instructions.